Unconventional Tactics
by weeatbabies
Summary: Because the title "Avatar" is extremely misleading and Robin doesn't do a damned thing the same way we'd really want to. A series of one-shots.
1. Unconventional Tactics

People often underestimated the strength of a bow. This was understandable, particularly after seeing a man cut another man clean in half with six-foot length of steel. However, one should think closely about how far an arrow fired from a longbow can penetrate through an inch-thick door. Not far, true, perhaps a hand span at most. Then, one should contemplate precisely how many axe blows are required to break through the same door. Even a very strong man with a very big axe would require quite a few swings to get that far. True, an arrow would only leave a tiny hole in the door, while the axe blows would leave an enormous one. But when it comes to killing a man, it's not a matter of how much you maul his face, but how far your sword sticks in his chest.

Such were the happy thoughts of Robin, master tactician, as yet another arrow magically sprouted on his right palm.

"Forty-three!" The tactician counted. With a titanic effort, he tore the offending piece of wood out of his hand. Robin tossed it to one side, adding to the ever-increasing pile of spent shafts around him. His eyes never broke contact with those of the man shooting him.

_"Not like you're the one being shot, you fucker."_ Robin thought as he processed the archer's look of pained terror.

The tactician reached out with his mutilated hand to ward off the incoming arrow. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough hand left to fully stop the arrow. The center of his palm exploded into red mist as the shaft blew straight through it, lodging itself in Robin's chest. Robin let out a gasp of pain. Part of it came out around the shaft.

"Forty….FOUR!" The tactician half-groaned, half-screamed. Shakily, he brought his other hand, barely better than his first, to his chest.

With shaking hands of his own, the archer drew his last arrow from his quiver. He moved like an automaton as he lifted his bow. At this point, the archer was moving more on habit than thought. His brain had locked down out of sheer horror a dozen arrows ago, unable to comprehend what was happening. Robin tensed as the archer pulled the bowstring back, about to take his final shot.

Almost literally on his last leg, the tactician spun, facing the archer with side. This limited his opponent's targets to his shoulder, arm, and ass. Unfortunately, the arrow caught him in the head. Fortunately, it went in through one cheek and popped out the other.

"Fowty…fife…" Robin gasped. "Thumia…. Nhow…"

Behind him, something exploded into action. The archer was still stupidly reaching for an arrow that wasn't there when his eyes caught on him. Numb horror transformed into open panic as a shadow suddenly fell across the man. He barely had time to scream before death descended on him.

Robin watched with grim satisfaction as the Pegasus rider struck the man. It almost made the whole ordeal worth it. Almost.

"What in the name of…? What are you _doing?"_

Internally, Robin groaned. _"Not worth it. Not worth it at all."_

"Robin." Chrom growled grimly as he approached the tactician. "I hope you can explain this to me."

The tactician held up a hand, indicating his need for time to recollect himself. With painstaking slowness, he reached for the arrow lodged in his mouth. Gingerly, he probed the skin around the hole, getting a feel of his injuries.

"Yes, I understand that could be something of an impediment to our conversation." The prince conceded, voice softening. "Still, you better have a damned good explanation for your acti-"

Robin began to scream.

A scream that was not in the slightest muffled by the arrow in his mouth.

This was because the arrow was now not in his mouth, but in his hand, torn straight from his mouth.

Chrom had to confirm this fact.

"…You're _mad_." The prince whispered.

"I'm _dying_." The tactician replied, his speech slightly garbled by the ragged holes in either cheek.

"What are you… what are you even _doing?_" Chrom finally managed.

"Tanking." Robin replied levelly.

"What?"

"For Sumia."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means I block arrows with my face until they run out of arrows. Then Sumia sweeps in and murders people when they're helpless."

"…I have faith in your tactical knowledge, so I won't question the efficiency of that method. Moral ramifications clearly mean nothing to you, so I won't discuss the ethics of your actions. Nevertheless, I'm going to have to ask _why are you doing this._"

Robin blinked. "So Sumia can gain experience, of course."

Chrom opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. "Experience in what? Murder?"

"In battle." The tactician explained patiently. "You know, that thing we've been doing?"

"I don't think that running down unarmed men and killing them in cold-blood qualifies as battle experience." Chrom hissed.

The tactician blinked. "My lord, I was under the impression you've been doing this for years, not hours."

The crown prince of Ylisse bristled at these words.

"For all our lofty ideals and virtuous goals, make no mistake. We are murderers."

Robin spun to face his sworn lord, his expression grim.

"In the heat of battle, in some poor sleeper's bed, in front of someone's loving children, it doesn't matter."

The tactician's eyes bore into Chrom's own, challenging him.

"We are soldiers, the butchers of men. Nothing will change that fact."

Though the prince remained outwardly calm, inside, he was in turmoil. Had he made a mistake? Had he been too rash in trusting the fate of the army to this man? Had he declared a serpent to be the closest of his friends?

"They'll be safe… they'll be dead… they'll be safe… they'll be dead…"

Neither man was willing to break eye contact, but both focused on Sumia as she approached them. A vacant expression occupied her bloodstained face. She was tearing the petals off the flower in her hands with much more force than necessary. A small, broken giggle escaped her lips as she passed by the pair, ignoring both tactician and prince.

"Dead. Dead. All dead…. All dead…"

"…okay, I admit, that's kind of fucked up." Robin conceded.

"I trust you to put a stop to this." Chrom deadpanned.

"Fine. Second thing on my list of priorities. A distant second, but nevertheless second."

"Oh?" Chrom arched an eyebrow. "What's the first?"

The tactician rolled his eyes theatrically. As he turned to leave Chrom, he seemed to deflate, hunching over like a broken man.

"Healer… _healer…_!"


	2. Rude Surprises

Robin didn't put much stock in "destiny". He had even less in "love". Simple mathematics would've completely eliminated "destined love," even if being stuck in a camp full of hormonal young adults didn't. Oh, there was no shortage of romance going around the camp. In the brief few years he'd known them, he'd watched virtually every one of his friends get hitched. But even in the closest of those marriages, Robin failed to see the magical quality he kept hearing about in fairy tales.

That was not to say that those emotions were false. The tactician could see the bonds each couple shared. Nevertheless, anyone could have fallen for anyone, given sufficient prodding. Serious Cordelia could have winded up with roguish Gaius as easily as loyal Frederick. The reclusive Lon'qu could have married stoic Panne as easily as bubbly Lissa. Despite Tharja's unnerving obsession with Robin himself, she'd ultimately wedded the priest Libra. Hell, Robin's best friend, Chrom, had almost winded up becoming involved with half the female Shepherds. Unfortunately, the prince had gotten wind of Robin's mechanizations and promptly set his foot down. On the tactician's neck.

At any rate, Robin didn't believe in "destined love." When he saw Sully hauling Stahl's bruised body off the training ground floor, he saw two comrades who'd spent a lifetime building a mutual sense of trust. When he watched Vaike raving next to a quiet Miriel, he saw two opposites whose differences just happened to compliment each other. When he saw Nowi in Gregor's embrace, he'd immediately alerted the authorities. At any rate, every time Robin saw two people in love, he could see how the two individuals had come together, whether it was time, complementary personalities, or a whole lot of money. There was never anything neither magical nor fateful about their bond.

And yet, the tactician could not deny that something ran through him when he first laid eyes on her.

His breath lodged itself in his chest like an arrow. An electric current ran through his veins. The rest of the world melted away as she approached him, until only Robin and the girl remained. He saw her lips move, heard her words in his ears, but they were so distant, alien, and meaningless. Her words went right past his ears as she came to a halt in front of him, comfortably within reach of his arms.

"Father! I've been looking everywhere for you! Father, are you all right? Father, what's wrong? Father? Father! Fath-

* * *

Chrom looked upset with him.

This, in itself, was not strange. Chrom often looked upset with him. His employer had a wide range of upset looks just for him, ranging from the "my hired-help just defecated on my rug," to "my best friend just murdered me, my sister, my wife, my daughter, and my other daughter, in roughly that order." The look that the prince of Ylisse was shooting him was rather high on that spectrum. In fact, it wasn't much of a look at all. It was more of a palm across the face, with fingers over the eyes. Next to him, Frederick was similarly displeased, though the knight's expression was much less interesting.

"Robin," The prince commented gently. "What have we said about kidnapping children?"

The tactician thought for a moment. "Plan it out in advance?"

"More along the lines of think it through first. But I believe I should shorten it down to one word for you: **Don't**." Chrom snapped. "Release that child immediately."

"What? Why?" Robin exclaimed. "She's soft and cute and cuddly and adorable!"

"Amongst other reasons, you're imprisoning someone against their will." The prince remarked dryly.

"You don't know that!" Robin protested vehemently. "It's not like she's complaining!"

"That may be due to the fact you have your arm firmly wrapped around her face." Chrom remarked. "Also, the way she's flailing would indicate otherwise."

The greatest tactician in all of Ylisse gave this comment due consideration, directing a portion of his considerable intellect to his lord and friend's words. The rest of him took advantage of these moments to hug his victim tighter, better appreciating her huggableness.

"Robin?"

"Yes?"

"Let her go. Now."

"No."

"Are we going to have to repeat what happened when you first met baby Lucina?"

"You mean when you let me hold her?"

"Yes."

Robin blinked. "But if you broke all my fingers, how am I going to help direct the Shepherds?"

"With some difficulty, I expect." Chrom sighed. "Frederick, if you would please…"

"With pleasure, my lord." The knight advanced, cracking his knuckles.

"I'm going to have to have words with your wife about this abusive aspect of your personality." Robin remarked. "It can only serve to deteriorate our relatiYEOW!"

Robin hissed out in pain as his victim's boot connected with his shin. For a moment, his grip loosened, giving her a hair's breadth of room. However, before she could wriggle free, the tactician resumed his hold. His arms slipped around her chest, firmly locking her against him.

"Ha! Didn't think it'd be that easy, did you?" The tactician hissed. "Do that again, and I'll-"

"Father!" The girl exclaimed with her now uncovered mouth. "What are you doing?!"

Save for the struggling girl, everyone present froze.

"I thought you got over this years ago!" The girl continued. "Let go!"

Robin complied, dropping her as if she was red hot. The girl immediately broke away, gasping for fresh air. The tactician took a moment to take a look at the girl. A _real _look at the girl. As objective as his…_ impulses_ allowed him to.

Thirteen, maybe fourteen. Her small stature, short limbs, and awkward bearing suggested she'd yet to hit puberty. Her cloak - _his_ cloak, he noted absently – was a few sizes too big for her, threatening to engulf her diminutive frame. The head that poked out of the circus tent assemble was round and soft. Her pale, bright skin accentuated her white, tousled hair. Robin took in her wide, ruby eyes, her button nose, her lips twisted into an adorable pout. When she opened her mouth to speak, he saw-

"FATHER! You're doing it again!"

"Huh? What? I reject your fallacious accusations, and I take offense to that!" The tactician blinked. Somehow, the girl had wound up in his arms again. Huh.

"Stop hugging me already!" The girl cried out, renewing her struggle. "It's embarrassing!"

"I guess it's safe to assume she's your daughter from the future then." Chrom interrupted lightly, while Frederick shot Robin a horrified look.

"Naga preserve us, two of them." The older knight groaned.

"That's not possible!" The tactician exclaimed. "I can't have a kid. Well, not an actual kid!"

"Wait, what?" The girl squawked. "I'm adopted?!"

"What? No!" Robin paused. "Maybe. Can I adopt you?"

The girl blinked. "How could you adopt me if I'm already yours?"

"Because you're totally not mine. But I'd like you to be!"

"Father! That's not funny!"

"I think that's quite enough for now." Chrom cut in. "Young lady, may I know your name?"

"Oh, uhm..." The girl twisted in Robin's grip, struggling to face Chrom. For a moment, she looked pensive, before exclaiming. "Morgan! Yes, that's it!"

"…May I know your real name?" The prince asked with a hint of exasperation.

"Are you calling me a liar? Because that's a serious allegation, and I take offense to that!" Morgan declared.

"Two of them." Frederick repeated hollowly.

"I'm merely trying to find out your name, young lady, so that I know how to address you." Chrom explained patiently.

The girl gave him a mistrustful look, but opened her mouth to reply. Robin noted the way her expression changed from one of to suspicion to confusion, then to horror, with some interest. It was amusing the way her mouth hung open in all three phases.

"Fa-father…" Morgan whined piteously, looking up at Robin. "I…I don't remember anything!"

"Two of them." Frederick said again, because it really did bear repeating.

"I can't remember where I was or what I was doing or who mother is!" The words came tumbling out the girl's mouth, voice panicking.

Robin snorted. "Mother? Right, next you'll be telling me you had three brothers, and maybe an inbred cousin-daughter of your own."

Morgan flinched as if struck. Robin felt his heart sink as she tried to peel out of his embrace. The tactician held on to the girl, mind racing for a way to salvage the situation.

"Um, shit, no. Not like that." The tactician winced. "I'm sorry it's just that… uh, I never pictured myself being a father."

The girl stopped her struggling, confused. She twisted around in his arms, turning to face him.

"I mean, uh, well…" Robin paused to formulate his thoughts. "I may be a pretty bright person, but I'm certainly not a very good person, and not a very people person. I don't think… I don't think I'd be a very good father."

He was babbling now, the tactician realized. Gibbering, more like. But the deep red eyes boring into his own were so wide, so hurt, so confused. He felt like he had to say something, anything, to make them better.

"I mean, I'd seriously love to have a daughter like you." Robin continued. "And I really, really hope that one day, I do. But I'm not prepared to be a father right now, certainly not a wonderful girl like you. I mean, you can stab people, set them on fire, and you're the most adorable thing in the world. I can't even begin to imagine what'd I'd done to deserve! I also have no idea how the heck I'd help you or guide you or… whatever father stuff there is out there…"

"Father, what are you talking about?"

"Ohdeargodpleasestopcallingmethat."

"Father, are you alright?"

Robin sighed. "Morgan, there is a distinct possibility that you came from the future."

His daughter greeted this statement with a flat stare. "Father, are you out of your mind? That's not even possible."

The tactician sighed. "Morgan, take a good look at me. Do I look old enough to have a fifteen year old daughter?"

The girl shook her head. "Not really. But you've always looked that way. You said it was because you bathed in human blood."

Robin paused. "It's good to know that that won't be in vain. But the point is, uh, you've traveled back in time or something."

"…huh?"

"I'm not the father you knew. Because I'm not really a father. On the grounds that you haven't actually been born yet."

"…what?"

The tactician sighed. "Shut up. Stay close. Don't die. Is that good enough for you, young lady?"

"Um, yes sir!" The girl gave a stiff salute. Or tried to. He should probably stop hugging her, he noted.

"Right then. Onwards, adorable offspring of dubious origins!"

Forgotten, Chrom watched as his best friend and younger carbon copy marched back into battle, a bemused expression on his face. Next to him, Frederick was fighting a losing battle against the impulse to curl into a little ball and weep.

"Two of them." He repeated again, with the beginnings of genuine despair.


	3. Awkward Questions

To promote teamwork and unity, Chrom had decreed that the Shepherds take at least one meal a day together, providing the opportunity for the entire company to socialize on a regular basis. To prevent a certain amount of infighting, to ensure that the camp wasn't left entirely unguarded, and to avoid hauling a five-by-forty slab of solid oak across the continent, Robin decided that only half the Shepherds would be at the table at any one time. The rest were elsewhere in the camp, attending to their various duties. This meant that only a fraction of the Shepherds were there when one of the future children unleashed complete and utter chaos on the army.

"Where do babies come from?"

The words were uttered innocently, casually, and in tones of honest inquiry. Yet they somehow cut through the din in the mess tent, reaching the ears of all twenty or so occupants. By the time they'd reached the far side of the tent, everyone in the room had gone completely still. Everyone save for one insensitive individual, who continued to chew away at his mouthful of food.

Robin, chief tactician of the Shepherds, continued to work his jaw vigorously. Black bread, he mused, was probably what potters did with their unfired rejects.

"Father! I asked you a question!"

The tactician swallowed, snapping out of his thoughts. His daughter was glaring at him from across the dining table. Her brilliant carmine eyes were narrowed in her petulant little pout. Robin watched as Morgan puffed up her incredibly pinchable cheeks and bristled like a prodded cat. The tactician felt himself sorely tempted to reach over the table and pull his daughter into a great bear hug. The self-control it took to overcome the urge was nothing short of heroic.

"Father! Let go!"

Robin freely admitted that he did not have such reserves.

"Geez father," A voice mumbled at his chest. "You were nowhere near this touchy in the future."

"Noted." Robin replied. "Now stop talking. It tickles."

Morgan wriggled upwards, poking her head out of her father's arms. "No! I have a question!"

"What? Oh. Shoot. I guess." The tactician mumbled.

"Where do babies come from?" Morgan repeated, curious.

Robin went completely still.

The rest of the Shepherds began to stir again, relieved that the bombshell wasn't meant for them. Some of their expressions turned from shocked horror to wry amusement, enjoying the tactician's predicament. Gaius whispered something to a smirking Chrom, who nodded and indicated his wager with three fingers.

The tactician looked into the air for a moment, a pensive frown on his face.

"I don't know."

Chrom's, and not to mention everyone else's, smiles evaporated in an instant.

"Father…" Morgan deadpanned. "That's not possible. You had me."

"Correction. I _will_ have you." Robin replied. "Or, rather. I probably will. If I ever figure out how."

Morgan pouted. "And you call yourself an all-knowing adult?"

"I call myself amnesiac." The tactician replied. "And not only because it's convenient."

"…well, that's not very helpful." Morgan said. "How am I supposed to know about babies then?"

"Ask one of our sterling comrades." Robin answered, throwing up an arm and gesturing expansively. "Chrom! Hey Chr-… where did everyone go?"

Morgan wriggled around in her father's arms, turning so that she could see the rest of the tent. True to Robin's words, the rest of the Shepherds had vanished without a trace.

"…they sure left in a hurry." Robin commented lightly.

"No kidding." Morgan sniffed. "Ooh. Dibs on Donnel's roast."

"Whoa, stay on topic, Morgan." The tactician declared. "Didn't you want to know where babies came from?"

"Well, yes, but not as much as I want everyone else's lunch."

Robin frowned. "Even though apparently everyone would prefer ditching their meals over telling us?"

Morgan thought about that. "Well, since you put it that way…"

Laughing gently, the tactician leaned down and pecked Morgan on the forehead. "That's my girl."

* * *

"We should split up, cover more people faster." Morgan remarked as the pair exited the tent.

"That would imply letting go of you, and I'm not entirely sure I'm prepared for that." Robin replied.

Rolling her eyes, Morgan jabbed a finger into the tactician's armpit. With a startled yelp, he dropped his daughter.

"Right then." Morgan continued. "I go look for the future children, you go with the parents?"

"Why differentiate?" Robin countered. "Just pounce on the first person you see."

"Father…" His daughter sighed. "It's hard for us younger ones to talk to you older ones. We can barely talk to our parents."

The tactician blinked. "How so? I'm only maybe two years older than the oldest future child. Four, maybe five from the youngest."

"More like twenty-five."

"TIME TRAVEL!"

"Yes, but in our minds, we'll remember that-"

"TIME TRAVEL!"

"Even without the perceived age gap, they were like uncles and aunts to us, so we feel like we're overstepping-

"TIME TRAVEL!"

Morgan sighed. "It's just weird, okay? Weird weird weird weird weird!"

"That's discrimination against the chronologically different, and I know for fact you'll be raised better then that!"

"We're in an army where people can get engaged within four conversations!" Morgan protested. "Imagine trying to talk to your friend's father with that hanging over your head!"

"That's an absurd exaggeration that hints at signs of extreme paranoia. It makes me deeply worried about your mental health." Robin replied cheerfully, without a hint of concern.

"...Fine. Go accidentally fall in love with Chrom's daughter or something. See if I care."

Robin laughed heartily. "So, you hit west side, I hit east side?"

"I'd really be more comfortable with just the future children." Morgan mumbled uneasily.

"Oh, come on. It's not that personal a question. I'm absolutely certain asking the older ones how babies are spawned won't result in spontaneous marriage." Her father declared nonchalantly. With a little huff, Morgan departed.

"If you turn out wrong, you're paying for the wedding!" The girl called out over her shoulder.

The tactician laughed off his daughter's comment easily. The never-ending stream of silliness and crazy talk that came out of her mouth was positively adorable. Why, he couldn't even begin to fathom why he'd shell out gold for a wedding when an assassin was so much cheaper.

* * *

Morgan's mood was somewhat dampened as she put distance between herself and her progenitor, a small frown replacing her trademark smile. While Morgan adored Robin with every fiber of her being, this younger version of her father was… frustrating in many ways.

"Hi, Morgan! Strange to see you with a frown."

The tactician-in-training shook her head, snapping out of her train of thought. Her expression lightened slightly as she turned to greet the speaker, but not by much. It was generally a bad idea for a woman to greet Inigo with a smile.

"Oh, hi, Inigo!" Morgan greeted cheerfully. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something."

Despite his less than savory reputation, Morgan quite liked the company philanderer. He was always there for her to mooch a meal or a cup of tea off of.

"Ah, there we go. You're so much cuter when you smile."

"Huh?" Morgan reached up to touch her face. "Oh. Huh. Hmmm…"

Inigo let out a little laugh. "Now that I seem to have relieved my lady of her worries, would you care to share them?"

"Oh. Right!" Morgan exclaimed. "Where do babies come from?"

Another thing that made Inigo so endearing was how expressive he was. He gestured with his hands, shuffled his feet, shifted his body, and made weird faces. He was easier to read that a child's picture book. Therefore, the complete lack of reaction from him was somewhat surprising. Morgan was on the verge of repeating her question when the philanderer spoke up once more.

"I'm… I'm sorry." Inigo said, his smile wavering slightly. "Could you say that again?"

"Where do babies come from?" Morgan repeated, frowning slightly.

The philanderer's face scrunched up like a pug inhaling a lemon. After a while, he attempted to uncurl his face, but was experiencing some difficulty extracting his nose. Morgan considered reaching out to help with the process, but decided against it. It struck her as impolite to reach into the back of someone's skull.

After a few minutes, Inigo had recovered enough to deliver a shaky reply. "I-i-i… I don't kn-"

"Liar."

"-ow." Inigo paused. "…you're not even going to wait for me to finish the sentence?"

"Well, if you're going to be that bad at lying…" Morgan shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Tell me."

"I…I… can't!" Inigo exclaimed, face-flushing red. "It's embarrassing!"

"Then it's even more embarrassing to not know!" Morgan exclaimed. She stepped closer to Inigo. "TELL MEEEEEEEEE."

"No! Really! It's inappropriate to discuss in public!" Inigo protested feebly, backpedaling away from the advancing tactician-in-training.

Morgan pouted. "Fine. We can go to your tent, and you can tell me."

The red was turning to a vivid shade of crimson, stretching to the man's neck. Inigo gave her a horrified look that reminded Morgan of a kicked puppy. "w-w-w-WHAT?!"

The tactician-in-training flinched. "What? Surely you can explain it in private!"

"NO! Absolutely not!" Inigo exclaimed. "It's not right for a boy and a girl to be alone like that! Especially not to talk ab-b…. about…"

Morgan blinked. "Alone like what?

"Just…" The philanderer sputtered. "Alone! In private! Together!"

Morgan considered this. "Why?"

"You just don't!"

The tactician-in-training considered this with a frown. "That can't be right. I thought that was the whole point of getting people out on dates."

Inigo blanched.

"I mean, you hit on people all the time, so you should know that, right?" Morgan mused. "Whenever I see one of the couples on the Shepherds go on a date, they usually end the evening by going to one of their tents, or rent a room at an inn. Sometimes they don't even go on a date first. Why, yesterday night, your mother-"

"DEAR NAGA, I DO NOT NEED TO HEAR THIS." Inigo practically shrieked.

Morgan leapt into the air in surprise. "Huh? Wha?"

"GET OUT OF HERE! OUT!"

"But we're out in the open-"

"JUST GO AWAY!" The philanderer screamed, on the brink of tears.

"Okay, okay..." Morgan sighed. "Jeez…"

* * *

"For the record, I didn't actually expect this to work." Robin commented.

"For the record, it wouldn't have, if you hadn't baited it with top-class Valm mint chocolates." Gaius mumbled between bites.

The tactician prodded his trap experimentally, testing its structural integrity. Gaius was a slippery fellow, and the reed basket had been meant for laundry. When Robin had propped it up with a stick on a string, it had been more of a calculated insult than an honest attempt. Seeing the master thief's ass hanging out of the corner of the upturned basket made for a surreal sight.

"So, uh…" Robin prodded the basket. "You still kill people on the side?"

The crunching noises stopped. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, Bubbles."

"Of course, of course." The tactician nodded. "So, hypothetically speaking, let's say there's this girl. A sweet little girl. The gem in her father's eye."

"Er. Okay…"

"The problem, you see, is that this precious little girl is also a tad naïve. And she resides in a camp full of psychotics, sociopaths, and perverts. The kind of people who really don't think should be around Morgan. I mean, hypothetical girl."

"Then perhaps if you distanced yourself…"

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing, Bubbles."

"Right then." Robin frowned, scratching his head. "The problem is that, despite all that, her hypothetical father believes that hypothetical daughter is indeed more or less a grown-up, and should be allowed the freedom of her own choices. Or, at the very least, is fairly certain hypothetical daughter will stop talking to him if she got wind that hypothetical father was crucifying her hypothetical suitors to lightning rods."

"Charming."

"I know, right?" Robin smiled. The tactician began to circle the laundry basket. "However, if a hypothetical third party were to stab all these hypothetical suitors in their hypothetical hearts, that third party could hypothetically find themselves suddenly in possession of large bags of hypothetical gold. All these people in this purely hypothetical scenario would then be hypothetically happy. Aside from these hypothetical suitors with hypothetical stab wounds."

"…Bubbles, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

Robin sighed. "Okay. I admit it. I don't know what hypothetical means. Fredrick just uses it a lot when he tries to be discreet to Chrom about firing me."

"No, I mean, I don't kill people." Gaius clarified.

The tactician gave Gaius a blank look. "I've seen you kill people. I've ordered you to kill people. You have killed so many people, we are running out of people to kill."

"Well, yes." The thief continued. "But I don't do it for money."

"Don't tell Chrom I said this, but there's no shame in that." Robin replied sympathetically. "I mostly do it for kicks too."

"I meant I don't murder people for gold." Gaius clarified patiently

"…huh." The tactician considered this. "Well, I have these maple cakes from Rosanne."

"Maples cakes?" The thief asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Made with the finest maple syrup." Robin explained. "Fresh tapped from the oldest, richest trees in the province. They leave it to thicken in the barrels for months, until it turns so sweet it'll bore straight through your teeth."

Underneath the basket, Gaius had gone silent.

"Rare stuff, you know." The tactician continued lightly. "Even nobs usually have to set an order years in advance before they get their hands on a bottle. I liberated a casket when we were in Valm, and kept it in my private stash. All sorts of things you can do with it. Bake cakes with it. Dry it into sugar. Pour it on hotcakes. Die young of diabetes…"

"Stop it, Bubbles." Gaius snapped. "I'm not going to kill someone for sweets."

"You aren't?" Robin exclaimed, surprised.

"No. And that's final." Unseen by the tactician, the thief brought one sleeve to his face, wiping the saliva from his mouth.

"…who are you and what have you done to Gaius?"

"Funny, Bubbles." Gaius replied sarcastically.

"Well," Robin sighed. He stopped his circling to sit on the basket, demonstrating that it was of sterner stuff than it looked. "Guess I'll have to do it myself then."

"Afraid so, Bubbles." The thief resumed chewing on the chocolates.

"Dang." The tactician tilted his head. "Oh, by the way, do you know where babies-"

The sound that marked the upending of the laundry basket was more akin to a thunderclap than a snap. Robin could have sworn he made two full rotations before he hit the ground headfirst. Through the tattered remains of reed panels, he could see a flash of black and orange, disappearing off into the distance.

"Subtle." The tactician croaked. "Really, really subtle."

* * *

"Has anyone found our resident amnesiac terrors yet?" Chrom asked as he strode through the camp.

"Cynthia says she found Owain completely quiet for once, and Vaike stopped referring to himself as 'teach.'" Sumia reported. "So we think Morgan's made her way through loud camp."

"Lady Maribelle's been seen mumbling to herself about uncouth commoners and their crude questions. We also found Tharja face down in a pool of blood. I think it's safe to say that Robin's gone through the spell caster's section." Frederick added.

Chrom paused. "Pool of blood? Is she alright?"

"Probably. It originated from her nose." The knight deadpanned. "Milord, as amusing as this whole incident is, it is becoming something of a problem."

"Yes, yes, I know." The prince sighed. "We'd best get a hold of them before they upset more people."

"Yes Milord, but what do you plan to do once you catch up to them?"

Chrom flushed. "I was hoping you could help me with that."

"I'd rather not. It strikes me as foolish behavior to explain to the miscreant how to create more miscreants."

The prince threw his wife an imploring look. "Sumia?"

"Wha-? No!" The pegasus knight yelped, her face beet red. "I couldn't do that!"

"Right." The prince sighed. "Well, we'll burn that bridge when we get there."

"Perhaps if milord had put a stop to this nonsense before it'd begun…" Frederick commented lightly.

Chrom threw his hands up into the air. "I panicked, alright? Now shut up and help me stop the damage from spreading."

* * *

Morgan passed by several more Shepherds, and put forth her question to each of them. A lot of them followed Inigio's actions and turned into a stuttering mess. A lot more fled. She was beginning to have second thoughts about confronting others about the origins of-BUNNY.

It was at the height of her parabola that Morgan realized it was NOT Yarne she was diving towards.

"OWCH!"

"Ah! Momma bunny!" The tactician-in-training exclaimed. "Sorry!"

"What are you doing, man-spawn?" Panne demanded. "Release me!"

"I can't help it!" Morgan exclaimed. "They're just so long and fuzzy and cuddly and bendy-"

"As bad as your vile father!" The taguel snapped. "Let go of my ears this instant!"

The tactician-in-training obeyed – Panne's indignant words were nowhere near as entertaining as her son's pathetic wailing – and stepped back. "Sorry! Sorry! I thought you were Yarne!"

"Is there some particular reason you were trying to manhandle my child?" Panne inquired, her face fixed in a scowl.

"He's so cute when he cries!" Morgan answered immediately.

"…_worse_ than your father."

Morgan beamed.

"If there is nothing else, then leave me be." The taguel said. "Talking with your father or you is… exhausting."

"Ah! Wait! Hold up momma bunny!" "Morgan exclaimed. "I wanted to ask you a question!"

"…What is it?" Panne asked testily.

"Do you know where babies come from?" The tactician-in-training inquired.

The taguel raised an eyebrow. "…What?"

"Or kittens. Or cubs. Or whatever baby taguel are called." Morgan explained.

"You mean mating?"

The tactician-in-training's eyes lit up. "Maybe? I don't know! Tell me!"

Panne's scowl softened into a pensive look. "I don't know. From my experience, the habits of you manspawn are significantly from that of the taguel."

"They can't be that different. You managed to have Yarne."

"I suppose." The taguel sighed. "Very well. I can spare a few minutes to tell you the customs of my people."

"Ooh!" Morgan plopped unceremoniously on the ground, eyes wide and expectant. She waited patiently as Panne gazed off to the distance in silence, formulating her thoughts.

At length, the last of the pureblooded taguel spoke. "Much as it is with you manspawn, it is usually the males who pursue the females, demonstrating their intentions to mate."

The tactician-in-training nodded twice, signifying her acknowledgement.

"Generally, the male propositions in their natural form."

"Their natural form?" Morgan interjected.

"Yes. Their rabbit form." Panne explained. "You don't think we usually appear so man-like, do you?"

Morgan frowned. "You and Yarne do around here."

"When amongst men, do as men do." The taguel explained. "However, that is unimportant. When a male taguel is interested in a female, he runs circles around her, informing her of his interest."

"Like real bunnies do!" The tactician-in-training exclaimed.

"Perhaps." Panne allowed. "Should the female be interested, she will refrain from kicking him in the face, or chasing him off with her teeth and claws."

Morgan paused. "Uhh…"

"To display his strength and courage, the male then displays the trophies he has accumulated in battle."

"Less bunny-like." Morgan pointed out mournfully. "Aww…"

"He then goes off to bring a fresh trophy to show that he will continue his efforts. Usually a bear. But sometimes a manspawn knight."

"…wait, what?"

"Trophies." Panne explained patiently. "Like those you manspawn preserve and hang up on your walls."

Morgan's expression turned wooden.

"…is something the matter, manspawn? Your heart began beating faster."

"Oh, nothing." Morgan replied brightly, her expression still frozen. "Just, uh, I suddenly remember that I had to do… things…"

"Things?"

"Important things. Tactician things." Morgan clarified. "So I'm just going to, uh, go do them now…"

"That is unfortunate." The taguel stated mildly. "Though, perhaps you can come see my own collection next time."

"I'll think about it." Morgan replied with a sickly smile. Contrary to popular belief, she did _not_ share her father's visceral interests.

* * *

"For all intents and purposes, it appears to just be a dried human arm." Robin noted clinically.

"Nya ha ha! Seems so!" Henry replied.

"Therefore, I think we can conclude that Risen are just human corpses reanimated by magic, and are not in fact some form of mysterious man, animal, or manimal."

"Yep!"

"Worse still, whatever enchantment that animates them mimics life far more closely than should be strictly necessary. From our previous observations on the field, we know that they die to decapitation, disembowelment, impalement, blood loss, burns, electrocution, and Plegian suplex."

"Is that strange?" Henry asked cheerfully.

"Well, yeah." Robin snapped out of his serious tone. "They're dead. They're moving around via magic. If its magic that animates them, their brains, hearts, and other meaty things should have absolutely nothing to do with what keeps them moving. So why do they die again when we stab them there?"

The druid shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe the magic reanimates those parts?"

"Possibly. We'd have to get our hands on a few next time to be sure." Robin sighed. "Either way, what a waste of time."

"It's not that bad." Henry comforted. "We didn't find a new weakness, but now we know more about them!"

"Yeah. We're basically like fighting people who don't scream, cry, or run when you stab them." Robin sighed. "All the effort. None of the fun."

"They still bleed though." Henry pointed out with a smile.

Robin snorted. "That black goo that oozes out of their veins is more like snot than blood."

Henry shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy."

The two silver-haired, pale skinned, bloody-minded men in Plegian cloaks were squatted over a disembodied arm. It was a sight that had appeared in more than one Shepherd's nightmares. When Henry's macabre disposition had become apparent, many had expected him and the tactician to be thick as thieves. It baffled many that over the months, the two barely talked with each other.

"So, what were you up to?" The dark mage asked.

"Huh? Oh. Right!" Robin exclaimed, remembering what he'd been doing before he'd been distracted by the sight of Henry in possible pain. "Do you know where babies come from?"

"Yep!"

"Oh? Really?"

"Of course!"

"Awesome!"

"Isn't it?"

"Yeah!"

"Mh-hmm!"

"Tell me already, you bastard!"

"Nope!"

"Why not?"

"Why would I?"

"It'll stop me from nailing you upside down by your stupid ears and tying your dumbs arms behind your retarded back!"

"Sweet!"

With an exasperated sigh, Robin reached into his cloak and produced a small wooden mallet and a handful of nails. "And people wonder why we don't get along."

"Nya ha ha!" Henry laughed, pulling out his flux tome.

* * *

"Couldn't your father tell you?" Laurent inquired, faint red dusting his cheeks.

Morgan shook her head. "No. He's not half as smart as people think he is."

The mage gave her a puzzled look. "You mean he genuinely does not know?"

"Well, yes. Why else wouldn't he tell me?" Morgan asked.

Laurent paused. "The act of procreating is a… somewhat sensitive matter. It is generally considered improper to discuss in public."

"That's stupid!" The tactician-in-training piped up. "How would the babies who grow up know how to make more babies then?"

"Generally, their parents explain it to them. Failing that, an older friend." Laurent sighed. "I suppose I can play that role."

"You will? Really?" Morgan threw her arms into the air. "YES!"

"Well, someone should." The mage explained. "Now, let's see… you know what sexual reproduction is, correct?"

Morgan blinked. "Sexual reproduction?"

"The term refers to the process of procreating by combining the essence of two separate organisms." Laurent explained. "It is the chief means of reproduction in faunal life. My mother hypothesized that plants also multiplied in such a manner, though she didn't have the opportunity to test it."

Morgan's face grew intent as she drank in this information.

"The process requires a male and a female organism, generally of the same species. Though there have been examples of creatures of the same genus successfully reproducing, such as the case of the _Equus mulus,_ this is the exception rather than the rule. Furthermore, such creatures are sterile, suggesting that there is something faulty in this process."

The tactician-in-training frowned, but nodded.

"The male reproductive organ, or genitals, consists of the testicles and the penis. This is generally found near the abdominal region of an organism. The testicles house and produce the male essence, which scholars are coming to call semen. The penis is used to transfer the semen into the female."

Morgan nodded again.

"The female genitals consist of the clitoris and vulva, as well as additional organs further in the body. The clitoris is…"

The explanation went on for quite some time. At some point, she took out an empty book. The quill in her hand moved rapidly as he spoke. After a while the mage began gesticulating wildly, the tactician-in-training nodding her understanding. By the time he'd finished, hours had flown by, leaving the sun tilting toward the west.

"And that, Morgan, is the means by which mammals procreate." Laurent finished.

"I see!" The girl said with a bright smile. "Thanks!"

"Do you have any further inquiries regarding the matter?"

"Nope!" Morgan exclaimed.

"Excellent." The mage looked up into the sky and frowned. "It appears that it is getting late. I'm afraid I must excuse myself. There are other duties I must attend to."

"No problem! Thanks again!"

The mage departed, satisfied at having accomplished the somewhat harrowing task. It was good to know that the energetic tactician-in-training would no longer be running about camp, pestering everyone with awkward questions.

Morgan finished her doodle of a Cthulhu-esque tentacle monster sporting Laurent's spectacles and hat. Under the drawing, she'd jotted down the words "incomprehensible," "moonspeak," and "possible space alien". After some time, the mage's words final registered in Morgan's mind, causing the tactician-in-training to look up and blink rapidly.

"I don't understand a single thing he said." She admitted to no one in particular.

* * *

"Now, do you two have something to say to each other?" Cherche lectured.

"You'll not live to see the next dawn." Henry and Robin uttered in perfect unison. It was hard to tell which one was more sincere, the growling tactician or the smiling mage.

The pair each caught an armored fist on top of their skulls, which Robin thought somewhat unfair. That was where the Plegian prick had cracked him in the head with the corner of his book. It was only right that Cherche aggravate the other man's injury as well. Like, pull out Henry's impromptu ear piercing or something.

"I'm sorry for trying to kill you." The two chorused half-heartedly.

Cherche sighed. "That will have to do. You can go now, Henry."

"Nya ha ha!"

"Hey! Not fair!" Robin protested as the dark mage strode off. "Why doesn't he have to suffer?"

"Because according to the both of you, you started it." Cherche explained.

"What? Lies." The tactician snapped. "He withheld vital information from his superiors. That's, like, a hanging offense in the army. Isn't it?"

"Perhaps, if it were relating to military matters." The wyvern rider allowed. "But if it's about less… _crucial_ topics…"

"But no one will tell me!" Robin protested. "And I want to know!"

"Why?" Cherche asked.

"Because everyone else does!"

The wyvern rider hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose it is somewhat embarrassing to be left in the dark about such common knowledge…"

"Exactly!"

"Very well then, I suppose I could tell you."

"What, really?" The tactician brightened up. "FINALLY!"

"We'll need visual aids." Cherche continued. "To the wyvern pens!"

"Wyvern pens?" Robin echoed.

"We'll use wyverns as visual aids." Cherche explained. "It'll help you pick out a suitable mate for Minerva too!"

Alarms bells began ringing in Robin's head. Big ones. That screamed in human. As usual, Robin discarded caution in favor of curiosity. "Sounds great!"

"Well, then, I suppose we can talk as we walk." Cherche stated. "Humans and wyverns actually have similar parts, except that a wyvern has two-"

* * *

"This is frustrating. Why won't anyone tell me where babies come from?" Morgan said.

"It's a somewhat sensitive matter." Chrom explained. "One not all of us are quite so… cavalier to discuss."

The tactician-in-training pouted. "Well I'm not shutting up about it until someone tells me!"

Chrom watched as his wife petted Morgan on the head, seeking to sooth the irritated girl. They'd found her attempting to bully a flustered Lon'qu into submission. After prying her off the screaming man and explaining that not all situations called for exploiting the weaknesses of others, he and Sumia had escorted the tactician's daughter to the mess tent. Frederick had gone off to investigate the meaty thumping sounds that were coming from the far side of camp, which Chrom was willing to wager would uncover the tactician himself. After all, it was Robin's fault that the prince could now identify at least a dozen blunt instruments by the sound they made when they met flesh.

"Don't ignore me!" Morgan snapped.

"Hmmm?" Chrom started. "Ah. I apologize, Morgan. I was thinking."

"About what?" The tactician-in-training ask suspiciously.

The prince decided to take the plunge. "About how I'm going to explain where babies come from to you and your father."

Morgan perked up. "Really?"

Chrom nodded. "Yes."

"In words I can understand?"

"Of course."

"Without explicit details about the grisly rituals that come beforehand?"

"…Grisly?"

"That's a yes then." Morgan shrugged. "Still, I'll withhold my cheering until after this actually happens."

At that moment, Frederick and Robin entered the tent. The knight was holding the tactician in the air by the collar of his cloak. By the look on Frederick's face, he might have been holding up a dirty dishrag.

"I found him at the wyvern pens. Ogling the beasts'… unmentionables with Lady Cherche."

"Bad enough you interrupted her lecture. I'd like to know why you didn't drag her in along with me." Robin snapped.

"Technically, you're not in trouble. At least, you're not in trouble for disturbing the wyverns." The knight explained.

Robin raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really." Frederick dropped the tactician, who hit the ground with a startled yelp. "I leave him in your hands, milord."

Chrom gave Frederick a pleading look. "I don't suppose you've changed your mind about helping me with this?"

"Milord, though I am your man in all things, I'm uncertain how I can assist you in this matter." The knight remarked.

"Well, if you can explain to them-"

"I'm sure you have things well in hand." Frederick cut in. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

The knight strode out of the tent quickly, leaving his liege lord with his wife, best friend, and best friend's daughter. Chrom immediately darted to his wife's side, lest she run away too. Judging from her terrified look when he seized her hand, escape had certainly been in her thoughts. The pair engaged in a whispered discussion with the expressions of people participating in a yelling match.

"So….uh… what's happening right now?" Robin asked carefully.

"Chrom says he was going to tell us where babies come from." Morgan explained.

The tactician frowned. "Cherche was doing that already. We were getting to the cloaca or something when Frederick jumped me."

"The cloaca?"

"Damned if I know. She was pulling up some wyvern's tail and pointing at its butt." Robin's frowned deepened. "I think she may have been leading me on."

Morgan scratched her head. "You don't think-"

"Robin! Morgan!" Chrom blurted out. "Sumia and I are going to tell you about where babies come from!"

"Chrom is. _Chrom_ is." Sumia insisted.

"Sumia and I." The prince repeated. "Because we are man and wife and have taken vows of marriage and are obligated to stand beside each other in times both and bad."

"This isn't bad. This is just… embarrassing!"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd be happy if you two could start now." Robin remarked dryly from his place on a procured chair. "I still have two-thirds of the camp to go through after you two screw this up."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd be happy if you let go of me now." Morgan remarked dryly from her place on her father's lap. "I'm a little old for you to be doing this to me."

The tactician rested his chin on his daughter's shoulders and tightened his arms around her stomach. "No."

Morgan rolled her eyes and leaned back, resigning herself to spending this lecture with her father clinging to her like a limpet.

"Right. So, er…. Babies…" Chrom began. "Babies babies babies…"

"That's what we're here to talk about." Robin chirped helpfully.

"Right." The prince said absently. "So, uh, when a man and a woman love each other very much-"

"Or a man and a man." Morgan piped in.

"Or a woman and a woman." Robin added.

"Er… no. It's limited to man and woman." Chrom stated.

"Hater." Morgan accused.

"I thought you were better then that." Robin shook his head in disappointment.

"I-…no-…it's-…" The prince sputtered. "Babies require a man and a woman."

"Is that what your fascist regime brainwashes people into believing?" Morgan exclaimed.

"Sorry dear, I think we might have to move to Plegia." Her father sighed theatrically.

"Both of you, shut up until I say otherwise, or this conversation is over." Chrom stated acidly.

The pair gave him disapproving looks, but kept their mouths closed.

"Right, so when a man and a woman love each other very much…"

"…when they love each other very much?" Robin repeated.

"They, er… they…get married, and…er…" Chrom's mind drew a blank.

"And?" Morgan prodded.

"Pegasai!"

The three jumped at Sumia's sudden exclamation. Red-faced, the pegasus rider pressed on.

"When a man and a woman love each other very much, they marry. Afterwards, they write to the… the great, white pegasus for a baby!"

The trio stared at her.

"Yes! The great white pegasus in the north!" Sumia babbled. "She watches over all married couples and blesses them with children. If she receives your letter and deems you worthy, she sends a pegasus to bring you a baby!"

"Er… yes!" Chrom added, playing along. "They fly to individual houses, carrying babes swaddled in cloth with their mouths. When they reach the right households, they drop them down the chimney!"

The tacticians stared at the two, their eyes and mouths wide open with awe. Chrom and Sumia looked back at them, doing their best not to give away their game.

"Father?" Morgan said after a few long minutes, her eyes never leaving Sumia's.

"Yes Morgan?" Robin replied, his gaze locked with Chrom's.

"Do you think they're crazy, or do you think they think we're retarded?" Morgan asked, fear creeping into her voice.

"I don't know. But until I can think of what to do, try not to make any sudden movements." The tactician replied, voice even.

Chrom threw his arms up into the arm and sighed in exasperation.

"You don't really expect us to buy that horse dung, do you?" Morgan yelled. "The three year old you were doubtlessly planning to sell that to would have called you an idiot!"

"Pegasus? Really?!" Robin added. "Winged horses running a child-delivery service?"

"A chimney? A chimney?" Morgan continued. "You know what happens to a baby when you drop it down a two-story chimney?"

"I mean, come on! I saw Sumia waddling around the castle like a bloated walrus for months!" Robin pointed out. "You don't expect me to believe she was smuggling pies the whole time do y-"

Chrom brought his hands to his temples as an indignant Sumia thumped Robin over the head. Robin and Morgan were genius tacticians, brilliant military minds who'd helped the Shepherds overcome insurmountable odds. Their intellect and ingenuity were virtually unmatched in the eastern continent. It was an easy fact to forget when they came at people with wide eyes, earnest expressions, and carefree demeanors. One often forgot that they were not, in fact, idiots.

But at the same time… looking at their expressions of childish indignation and recalling the two short years of memories they possessed, it was hard to picture them as anything other than adolescents. It was difficult for him to bring himself to shatter their innocence.

Innocence regarding sexual matters, at any rate.

The gentle sound of cloth shuffling interrupted Chrom's thoughts. The prince watched as another individual whose youthful appearance completely belied their years of experience entered the tent. Nowi carried a stack of plates arguably taller than she was, balancing them on her head with her hands.

"Lord Chrom?" The manakete piped up. "Olivia asked me clean up the table. Everyone left their stuff here when they ran away during lunch."

"Ah, thank you, Nowi." The prince replied. "Just a second. We're discussing… things here."

"Discussing things?" Nowi repeated. "What things?"

"Where babies come from." Morgan answered.

"Oh! That's easy!" Nowi smiled. "It comes from fucking!"

One could've heard a spoon drop in the silence that followed. The four other occupants of the tent stared at the child-like figure who'd uttered the obscenity. Before Chrom could find his voice, Robin spoke. "What, like. Sex?"

"Oh. That's what sex is?" Morgan asked.

"Mhmm!" Nowi replied, puffing up her chest in pride.

"Eeeewww…" Robin and Morgan chorused.

"Is that what mating is?" Morgan asked.

"What, that thing animals do?"

"Mhmm!" Nowi nodded.

"Eeeewww…"

"Wait, does that mean a penis is another word for a dick?"

"Morgan, please tell me no one showed you their dick."

"Mhmm!"

"Eeeewww…"

"Gods, did I just spend a half-hour staring at wyvern vaginas?"

"Haha, you did what?"

"Mhmm!"

"Eeeewww…"

"Wait, does this mean that some future me fucked someone to make Morgan?!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Mhmm!"

"Eeeewww…"

"Anymore questions?" Nowi asked. "If not, I should probably get to work."

"Not really. Thanks." Robin shook his head.

"Would you like help?" Morgan asked, slipping out of her father's grip.

"Will you?" Nowi smiled. "Yay!"

"Hey! I never offered!"

"Just pick up the plates, father."

Chrom stared as the three scurried about the mess tent, acting as if the conversation that had just occurred never happened. His mouth worked wordlessly for a several minutes. Eventually, he took an unresisting Sumia by the hand and led her out of the tent, heading in the general direction of the Shepherd's alcohol supplies.

"What was that about?" Morgan a few seconds after the prince left.

"They're a little uptight about stuff like that here. It's really weird." Nowi explained.

"No way." Robin deadpanned, eyeing the manakete's clothes. Or lack thereof.

* * *

**A/N: Contemplating going through these and tearing out the name "Robin." This guy's about as far divorced from the in-game tactician as can be.**

** …NIBOR! :D**

** Feedback is appreciated. As a matter of face, feedback is desired. If I had it my way, feedback would be mandatory. I can safely say that I wouldn't even be posting these online if it weren't for the fact that I wanted feedback. Reviews, positive or negative, are everything for an author. I DEMAND THEM! D:**


	4. Infinite Regalia

In Chrom's personal list of "things I'd rather not face with a sword," generals wielding magical tridents were trumped only by pregnant Sumia with a broom. Pole arms were always a serious threat to sword wielders, their superior reach allowing them to strike far earlier than a swordsman. The thrusting motion of the weapon meant it was nearly impossible to stop with something as slender as a sword. Worst still, his opponent's own protection made all but the most accurate or powerful blows completely worthless against them. Much of this was also applicable to seven-foot tall spear wielders in full armor, except that in the case of a general, winning meant winning, rather than six months on the couch.

Chrom grunted as the trident struck his shield with the force of a battering ram. Though the Fire Emblem itself was indestructible, the man behind it wasn't. His bones creaked. His muscles flared. Something inside of Chrom was beginning to give away, and not in a psychological sense. Such was General Mus's strength that Chrom was beginning to suspect that the armored giant was made out of solid steel, despite the deadlord's own insistence that he was a reanimated corpse.

Despite the fact that the ground trembled under his footsteps, Mus was as sure-footed as a panther. The general matched Chrom step for step, as certain as if the two were in a dance. No matter whether Chrom was attempting to advance or retreat, how deftly he feinted and maneuvered, the general was always a spear-length away. The lightning-quick jabs that threatened to break Chrom's arm were always delivered just outside Falchion's reach.

The bastard was good, Chrom conceded. Very good. This battle was not in the Exalt's favor.

"Robin?" Chrom called out. "Robin, I could use a han-"

The abrupt crack bang that interrupted the Exalt's words also very nearly imploded his eardrums. Some unseen force struck Chrom hard in the side, launching him several yards away from Mus. Chrom angrily climbed up, ready to scream the tactician's own ears in for shooting Chrom in the back. However, at the sight of what exactly it was that had knocked the Exalt off his feet, the words died on his lips.

"Tell you what," Robin grumbled, dusting himself off. "I'll focus on doing a better job of keeping Ovis there from cutting us into bloody bits with those stupid wind blades of his, and you try not die. Sound good?"

Chrom had a moment to take in Robin's battered appearance – tattered cloak, cut brow, bruised face – before Mus was upon them, lashing out with his trident. Robin threw himself to one-side, back to his own opponent, while Chrom leapt up to meet the general's attack.

The Exalt weathered another barrage on the Fire Emblem, searching his opponent for any weaknesses. His arm was threatening to become one great, big bruise when he caught sight of an opportunity. Mus was make minute broadcasts before he struck. A subtle motion with his wrist, a gentle lifting of his elbow, and the slight twist of his shoulder preceded every blow. Better yet, the general was becoming complacent in the face of success, repeatedly striking him in the chest region.

Chrom spent a few more strikes testing his observations, stepping back to absorb the force of the blows. He also began to pull back his shield right before impact, further lessening the damage. His steps became shorter, his footing surer. When he became confident in his ability to predict Mus's blows, he lunged, shield low and angled to deflect the general's strike, while simultaneously making an overhead swing at Mus's head.

It didn't occur to him until halfway into his attack that it was a trap.

Mus pivoted on one leg, moving to one side and catching the Falchion on his armored shoulder. The motion also put him into position to drive his trident sideways into Chrom's waist. The general then proceeded to drive his vast bulk into the Exalt, sending him stumbling back.

Chrom managed to regain his balance just in time to raise his shield and fend off a stab to the head. But his shield momentarily blocked his vision, preventing him from seeing the strike that pierced his shin. With a gasp of pain, the Exalt sank to one knee.

"Foolishness." The general rasped, pulling his trident back for the final blow. "Your overconfidence shall be your end."

"Perhaps." Chrom conceded shakily. "But not today."

To Chrom's surprise, Mus reacted immediately to his words. The general spun around with supernatural speed, his trident a blurred crescent of silver. Steel met steel in a harsh metallic shriek. The general's eyes widened as he locked weapons with the backstabber. A single shocked word left his decaying lips.

"…Lucina?"

And then his death was upon him, seizing him in an invisible hand. Unseen chains pulled at him from every direction. It was as if he was caught in the grasp of a storm, threatening to tear him to pieces. His eyes darted to the side, where his fellow deadlord Ovis had been battling Ylisse's tactician. There were two individuals in long robe's there. Neither of them was his ancient companion. Robin stood propped against his daughter, a half-closed hand extended in Mus's direction.

"Checkmate." Robin hissed. He closed his hand into a fist.

Blades of wind sliced through the general's armor as if it were cheese. The dead flesh underneath fared little better. Morgan's face went deathly pale.

"Did you… did you have to make it so… squishy?" She whimpered.

"When your friend's neck is on the line, there's no such thing as too quick, too excessive." Robin replied. "Speaking of which…"

A sharp, effeminate scream filled the room. Robin glanced down the hallway.

"It sounds like Inigo is in trouble. Go do something about that." The tactician eased himself off his daughter and slid down onto the floor.

"Yes father." Morgan sighed. "Coming, Lucina?"

"I'm sorry, my father needs me." The princess replied without looking away from Chrom. She was kneeling next to the sitting Exalt, applying a vulnerary to Chrom's injured leg.

"Yes. Infinitely more than one of your childhood friends, who sounds like he's getting sodomized." Robin remarked dryly. "Better sure you wrapped that stubbed toe good and proper. Infection is a real killer."

The princess shot him a heated glare. "Inigo can take care of himself."

More screams followed, shriller and more urgent.

"Doubt. So much doubt." The tactician lay down on the ground. "Go. I'm not having a black mark on my perfect 'keep the Shepherds from getting killed' record because you were too busy babying your father."

"Lucina, enough." Chrom cut in before his daughter could speak. "Go. I can take care of myself."

"But father, you're injured!" Lucina protested. "What if another one of the deadlords comes across you right now?"

"Unlikely, considering how there are thirty-six of them." Robin explained. "If all things are going according to plan, all thirty-six of them are currently engaging the original Shepherds. This was to provide you children Shepherds time to work around to the back and wait for the opportune moment to bushwhack them, a task you and Morgan have accomplished admirably. Now, if you would like to continue with the plan and help our other embattled comrades…"

"Not to rush you guys or anything, but I don't hear Inigo anymore." Morgan said.

"Well. Fuck." Robin sat up. "Alright. Help me up. We gotta go-"

The screams returned, higher than before.

"Right. Never mind." The tactician lay back down and waved a hand at his daughter. "Go. Now now. While Inigo and his parents can still serve as a diversion." Morgan nodded and left the room

"You too Lucina." The Exalt declared.

"But father-"

"I'll be fine with Robin." Chrom assured her. "Now go."

Reluctantly, Lucina rose to her feet and moved to follow Morgan. When she reached the hallway, she hesitated, turning back to shoot Robin a warning look. "If anything happens to my father-"

"I got it, I got it." The tactician threw her a mocking salute. "Order received princess. Don't worry. Your old man is safe with me."

Lucina shot him one more dirty look before disappearing through the archway.

"I can't help but notice that you and Lucina appear to be at odds." Chrom mentioned as he busied himself binding his own leg.

"Hated me the moment we met." Robin supplied. "I suspect future me did not get along with her."

The Exalt chuckled. "An accurate reflection of present times. "

"I swear, you and Sumia trained baby Lucina to cry whenever I enter the room." The tactician huffed. "It's like instinctive behavior. She does it when she's _unconscious_."

"Perhaps if you stopped pinching her cheeks, or sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night for that express purpose..." Chrom hissed as he gave the bandage around his leg a final tug. "Naga … come over and give me a hand with this, will you?"

The Exalt regretted his words as soon as he saw Robin struggle to his feet. The tactician looked like he'd been rolling around in broken glass. "Perhaps you should tend to yourself first."

Robin glanced down at himself. "Largely superficial." He said dismissively. "How's that paper cut to your side?"

"Fine." Chrom half-lied. The blow had been deep, but hardly fatal. "You, on the other hand, look like a scratching post for a lion."

"Liar." Robin made a lurching step toward Chrom, stumbled, and pitched forwards, smashing face first into Mus's remains. "Ow. Fuck. Is steel harder than stone?"

"Alright, enough fooling around. Patch yourself up. We need to help the others." Chrom stated.

"They'll be fine." Robin groaned. "Oh. Hey. Neat spear."

The Exalt gave him a dubious look. "Unlikely, if this Mus was any indication. I haven't been that outmatched since Walhart."

"They'll be fine." The tactician repeated. "Even without the children providing support, I was careful with the match-ups. Catch."

"As you were with ours? Then we must make haste." Chrom plucked the thrown trident out of mid-air. "Also, I know I've had this talk with you about looting the dead…"

The Exalt trailed off as he looked at the spear. The weapon was a beautiful thing, the work of a master craftsman. Rings of gold reinforced the six-foot haft of ancient wood. A blade the length and width of a short sword was fixed on the tip of the weapon. Its silvery blade shone silver even under the buttermilk glow of the wall torchers. A pair of glittering malachite wings protruded from the base of the ornate spearhead, gleaming like polished jade. With a shake, a pair of red ribbons Chrom had mistaken for binding came lose, dancing wildly from the haft.

"Gradivus." Robin said. "The legendary spear, said to be one of the three holy weapons that were instrumental in founding the Holy Kingdom of Akaneia. Most famed amongst its wielders was Camus, leader of the Sable Knights, and the greatest warrior of his time. With Gradivus in hand, it was said that he was nigh invincible, besting knights, mages, and dragons with ease…"

"This is my father's spear," Chrom said.

"Right up until your ancestor Marth gutted him like a fish and took it from his corpse." Robin finished. "Since then, it has been a favored weapon for members of the Ylissean royal family who lack the aptitude to wield Falchion. Though only the fang of Naga marks one as divinely favored, Gradivus is no inferior as a weapon, capable of penetrating even the thickest armor as if it were parchment."

"But that's impossible." Chrom breathed. "Gradivus was lost during the war with Plegia. The Plegians seized and destroyed it."

Robin raised an eyebrow. "Welcome to the Outrealms, Chrom. Alternate worlds where virtually anything is possible. We've fought vegetarian zombies. We've encountered the spirits of ancient heroes. You've run around in your smallclothes on a beach-"

"Bathing suit." Chrom corrected.

"Right. Sure." The tactician continued. "Point is, it's not that surprising to find that something that was lost in our world had survived in another."

"I suppose…" The Exalt mused, staring at the weapon in wonder. His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him.

"Gods!" Chrom exclaimed. He looked at Mus's corpse in horror. "Father?!"

Robin snorted. "It is amazing how quickly you leap past all rational and credible theories, straight to the utterly impossible yet surprisingly accurate answer." The tactician pulled out a knight and began prying at the armored shoulder Chrom had struck.

The Exalt stared at his tactician. "You…knew? What are you doing? Stop that!"

"First off, close, but no cigar." Robin supplied. "Second off, I suspected… something. It came up when I was planning. The tactics the deadlords employed were somewhat unconventional. Retarded, actually."

With a grunt of effort, the tactician tore off half the shoulder plate. With a frown, he flung it over his shoulder and began prying at the other half.

"Thirty-six deadlord. Eighteen rooms. Two deadlords to a room. They spread themselves thin, making them easily to isolate and eliminate. It was possible that the rot's gotten to their brains, but it's a much safer bet that they did so intentionally. This pointed toward two possibilities: A trap, which I considered unlikely, or a challenge."

The tactician pulled off the other half of the shoulder plate and began cutting away at the cloth covering the shoulder.

"I'm all for a fair fight, provided the scales are weighed in our favor. I was pouring over our information on them, searching for the best possible matchups against them, when I noticed an… oddity. "

"Thirty-six deadlords." Robin continued. "Thirty-six might heroes, who battled to save their world. Though strong, swift, cunning and brave, they ultimately fell before the evil the fought, and their world became enshrouded in darkness."

With a sharp tearing noise, the tactician peeled a Mus's garment from his shoulder. The Exalt's blood ran cold when he saw what lay underneath.

"Chrom." The tactician whispered, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. "Did you know that, if you don't include the future children in the count, there's thirty-six Shepherds?"

Chrom did not answer, his attention resting on the marking on Mus's shoulder. Though the skin was decaying off and the flesh a mottled purpled, the mark of the Exalt was easily recognizable.

"Gods." Chrom's head spun. His hand went to his own shoulder, where a matching symbol was plain to see.

"Yeah…" Robin let go of the corpse and crawled over to sit next to Chrom. "On the plus side, I am now one of the few people who can proudly say they'd killed their best friend."

"Gods." Chrom repeated.

"Killed myself too." The tactician waved at Ovis's corpse. "Though if all goes according to plan, I suspect quite a few of the others will soon be able to make the same claim."

"Robin. That's…" The Exalt shuddered. "That's sick."

"A little. I can't wait to see everyone's expressions when they find out." Robin stated brightly. "You think any of them will figure it out on their own? Or do you think I'll get to break it to them?"

Chrom felt his temper flare, the bile rise in his throat. But before he could throw out an angry rebuke at the tactician, the Exalt caught himself.

"Is that the reason you matched us up against ourselves?" Chrom asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

The tactician gave him a wry smile. "Don't you trust me to put business before pleasure?" He shook his head. "I need to know if we're stronger than they are. Stronger than the warriors who ultimately failed to defeat Grima. If we could not stand against them, then I shudder to think of what would happen when we face the Fell Dragon."

"And frankly, I don't like our chances." Robin waved his hand vaguely over his cut chest. "Had Morgan and Lucina not showed up, we'd be meat."

"But they did." Chrom countered. "Do not underestimate the strength of the bonds we share."

"Bonds." Robin said dryly. "As opposed to the fact that we outnumber them by thirteen elite Shepherds who we really shouldn't have, or that our brilliant tactician had the foresight to position aforementioned Shepherds in prime locations to catch the deadlords in complete surprise."

Chrom laughed. "Yes. The bonds that guided our future children to the present, to assist us in our struggle."

Robin sighed in exasperation. "You like your bonds metaphor way too much."

The two sat in silence for some time, harboring their own private thoughts. The battle occurring in the rooms around them was long behind them. Their minds were already in the struggle that awaited them in the near future.

"Chrom, what if…" The tactician began hesitantly. "What if it's not enough? What if despite all our training, all our preparation, Grima proves to be too powerful?"

"You've helped us tip the scales in terrible odds before. I've no doubt you'll do so again." The Exalt replied.

"Your blind faith is, as always, more worrying than reassuring." Robin stated blandly.

"It's not blind."

"It is totally blind." The tactician snapped. "I can't tell if you're naïve or stupid or willfully ignorant of literally every goddamned reality in the world-"

"It's not blind." Chrom repeated, the weight behind his words breaking through Robin's belligerence.

The tactician turned to look at Chrom, turned to see the fire that burned in his pale blue eyes. Once again he was introduced to what it was that separated true leaders from ordinary men, the determination that blazed in their hearts.

"I know you. I trust you. Even if you doubt it yourself, I know you can." The Exalt repeated, looking into Robin's eyes.

Robin rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, ignoring the way his heart quickened at his look. "And you wonder why Sumia and Lucina worry."

Chrom cracked a smile. "I can handle myself."

"Yes. Totally what I meant." The tactician grumbled. Straightening up, he held out his hand. "Shall we go make sure that none of the others are being murdered by their otherworldly undead counterparts?"

Still smiling, the Exalt reached up and grasped the tactician's hand. "Lead the way, my friend."

* * *

**A/N: First stab at non-humor in God knows how long. Personally not as comfortable with it, but I'll let you be the judge of the results.**

**Thanks for reviewers of the last chapter! Guess begging does get results. They certainly did help motivate me to pull this out of my ass.**


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